


Waking Nightmares

by miitgaanar



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22852333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miitgaanar/pseuds/miitgaanar
Summary: Dreams have been long said to be omens of things to come—whether good or bad.  Cassandra never put much stock in that.  Being the huntress that she is, nightmares of her deepest fears and regrets have always haunted her.But there is something different about these dreams, the ones in which she is visited by a black knight.  The very same on the hunt for her dear friend's ward.
Relationships: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Caellach/Original Character(s), Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	Waking Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is based on a prompt that my friend [editoress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/editoress) gave me. A prompt that got, uh, very out of hand. The very first paragraph is that prompt, as it lends to the setup of the whole fic.
> 
> Anyway, if you're reading this, I hope you find a crisp hundred dollar bill on the ground.

> **You're dreaming. But you don't normally dream this vividly, do you? You've dreamed about Cahir before, but he's always wearing his winged helmet, always a figure on the battlefield. And normally you can't see every fleck of color in his eyes. Those eyes are fixed on you, fascinated. His lips shape the word 'huntress,' but you can't hear him. But you know that if his hand reaches you, you'll feel it. Why? What is that look in his eyes? ... Was that really a dream?**

* * *

It lingered. No matter how Cassandra tried to distract herself, no matter the jobs she took on, no matter the candlelit taverns she visited or the cheap ale she drank, the dream always managed to worm its way to the forefront of her mind. It was strange, the effect it had had on her. She’d had dreams soaked in the blood of those she loved, filled with death and torture and horrors she could never bring herself to voice—and yet they did not permeate her every waking moment, did not instill a sense of inescapable foreboding within her very veins.

And certainly none of them had been so vivid, had left her wary and near fearful of sleep.

Truly, sleep had become a dreaded affair. Every time she felt her eyes flutter shut, her body begging for rest as she fought off the dark abyss of slumber for as long as she could, she heard him. It was always faint, a mere whisper on the wind as she sat by a modest campfire or near the warmth of a tavern’s hearth.

“ _Huntress_ ,” he would say, like a caress against the shell of her ear. It was hardly audible, yet somehow perfectly clear—and enough to cause her to jolt awake, her eyes wide and seeking the dreaded silhouette of Nilfgaard’s black knight hidden in the shadows, his sword drawn and ready to strike.

But he was never there, the shadows cast by the flames her only company; though she would swear she could still feel his sharp gaze upon her, following her every movement, watching as she struggled to steady her breathing and slow the erratic beat of her heart.

And so she would lie awake, her hand loosely gripping the hilt of her blade, her hunting cat curled up at her side, and wait for the dawn to come and chase away the phantoms that haunted her mind.

But she was only human, not a witcher or sorceress or sage, and sleep was an eventuality—a necessity—that she would succumb to, no matter the ferocity with which she fought against it.

* * *

Gray, gray, gray. Never before had Cassandra seen so much of the dull color. Not even the Isle of Skellige—where an achromatic sky left its shores bathed in a muted, desaturated light, where mists rolled in off the waters of an equally gray and colorless ocean—had ever been shrouded in a fog this dense.

And what a strange fog it was. So heavy and thick that she could hardly see two feet in front of her, the sun’s rays obscured so thoroughly that she could not even attempt to find its place in the sky. For but a moment, she thought for sure that she was about to be set upon by foglets, their claws and fangs tearing into her flesh before vanishing into the mists they called their home. But even a foglet’s fog should make the air feel wet and sticky, should leave a thin coat of slick moisture upon her skin—and this fog did neither.

Silence hung over her like a shroud, the area bereft of all the sounds one would expect of a slowly waking forest. At least, that's where she thought she had been before now. Hadn’t she?

It was with that thought that she realized she had no idea where she was, how she came to be here. A terrible cold settled into her bones, her blood freezing over until her fingers grew numb.

Sleep had finally claimed her.

Cassandra wracked her brain, trying her damnedest to remember when she could have possibly fallen asleep. It had been early, the sun only just barely cresting the horizon after a restless night. She was still trying to track down Geralt—the witcher was terribly adept at covering long distances in a short amount of time—and she had hoped to follow up on a lead in the next town as to where he might have prowled off to. The trees were a deep, vibrant green in the morning light, the grass swaying to and fro at her feet as the wind picked up. The birds were reserved in their usual greeting of the sun, but that was not so odd in this part of the forest where foxes and other nefarious creatures lurked in the shadows.

And then… nothing. There was no link between the waking world and this one, no instance in which she could even remember stopping to rest. One minute she had been following an old and worn path, her hunting cat trotting along amiably at her side, and the next she was here, trapped in a gray, featureless dreamscape.

She took a deep breath, centering herself before she took a slow, cautious step forward, her gaze carefully scanning her surroundings as she sought out even the slightest movement in the mist. Her steps made no sound, and even through the thick soles of her boots she could feel no foliage beneath her feet. Everything was quiet and still, unnervingly so, the only noise she could make out that of her own breathing, rapid and shaky and entirely too loud for her own comfort.

There was nothing, not a sound. Not the chirp of a bird or the buzz of a gnat. A featureless, ashen wasteland.

And yet she was not alone. 

Her stomach coiled and churned as her skin crawled with the sensation; that prickly, clammy feeling that gripped at the base of your skull when someone was watching you. It was unmistakable, and something she had grown adept at identifying after years of working on her own.

Cassandra felt her hand drift toward the hilt of her longsword, surprised—and relieved—to find the weapon strapped to her side. Muscle memory took hold as her mind went blank with the beginnings of panic, her ears straining to hear something, anything at all.

 _It’s only a dream_ , she told herself. _Just the same as the last._

But that feeling persisted, making her muscles lock up as she struggled to see past the overwhelming weight of isolation settling upon her chest.

Then, like a crack of thunder ringing out in the night, the quiet was shattered. A voice—dark and familiar, cool and calm, commanding and sure—pierced the silence like an arrow launched from an archer's bow, its tip finding its mark with expert precision even in the dense mist.

“Dear huntress,” the voice said, the light baritone coming from somewhere behind her. Cassandra spun around to face its source, her sword drawn and held before her in one swift movement. She had expected this, knew in her heart what awaited her in the fog, and yet she still felt her stomach lurch as her eyes fell upon the unwelcome guest.

Before her stood the very root of her dread and her nightmares, as if he had been conjured from thin air: the black knight of Nilfgaard, Cahir. 

He seemed amused, a smirk pulling at his thin lips as he looked past her blade and straight at her. He stood straight and tall, his cape billowing out behind him on a phantom wind, framing the infamous onyx armor of his kingdom.

Just like her previous dream, however, his telltale winged helmet was missing, revealing a head of chestnut brown hair combed back and away from his face, leaving his sharp jawline and high cheekbones on full display.

“So fierce,” he mused, his brows raised slightly. Still, he paid no mind to her sword, its tip a mere foot from the flesh of his throat. Why should he? A dream specter had no fear of death. “Though I should expect no less from the continent’s infamous Siren.”

Cassandra flinched at the use of her moniker. A name bestowed upon her by a gentle bard who had heard her sing and decided she was something more than just her armor. Hearing it come from Cahir’s lips had her jaw clenching until her teeth ached.

 _A dream_ , she insisted again.

“What would you know?” she ground out, her gaze firmly locked with his. She hated how blue his eyes seemed, even in this colorless fog. A shade to put a clear autumn sky to shame. Surely that was not the case in the waking world. “I am but a figure on the battlefield. Another piece of cannon fodder for you to hack to pieces. You know nothing about me.”

He tilted his head ever so slightly to the side, his brow furrowing. The look he gave her was pitying. Patronizing. Her grip on her sword tightened. “Is that what you think of your role in all of this?” He moved to take a step forward. Cassandra fought to remain still, to hold her ground. “That you are merely one more warrior for me to strike down? Another mercenary at my disposal?”

“I am _not_ at your disposal!” Her voice was a roar that seemed to echo in the cavernous space, her sword drawn back and over her head to swing for his skull before she could even think to stop herself.

But Cahir only sidestepped the blade’s sharp edge, his eyes never leaving hers. That terrible, pitying expression still in place. She wanted to scream. “You misunderstand, huntress.” His voice was soft and gentle, as if he was soothing a wounded beast. “Your place in all of this is so much more. You will be the one to help me complete my destiny.”

 _A dream. A dream, a dream, a dream, a dream._ The words repeated over and over again in her head as she tried in vain to drown him out.

“I will help you with nothing.” Cassandra flipped the hilt of her sword with a deft flick of her wrist so the blade pointed downward. Pivoting her hips, she cut upward toward his face in a wide arc, her lips pulled back into a sneer as cold, merciless steel hissed through the air. Still he merely ducked out of its path. She was growing frustrated.

“You will find Princess Cirilla.” He said it as if it were a mere statement of fact. Not an order, not a command. “You will lead me to her, whether you wish to or not. That is your destiny, as it is mine to help the princess achieve hers.”

 _A dream_ , she tried again, that voice in her head wavering.

“I am no slave to destiny,” she said between labored breaths. Something in the back of her mind recognized how odd that was—when was the last time she had felt winded in a dream?—but she pushed on, ignoring the rising feeling of trepidation. “Nor am I bound to you and your ilk.”

There was a flicker of emotion in Cahir’s face, something she couldn’t identify. Certainly nothing she had ever seen cross his features before. “Fighting fate is as fruitless as fighting the tides.” The words were sharp, a venomous edge creeping into his tone. “All you have done is delay the inevitable, and leave a trail of bodies in your wake.”

Cassandra froze. “That’s not true.” 

“Isn’t it?” He arched an eyebrow, his gaze stern. Gone was the pitying expression, replaced by a carefully crafted mask of disdain. “There were more than a few men under my command who would disagree.”

“I won’t apologize for doing what is necessary to keep Ciri safe.” 

The black knight merely nodded, his hands now clasped behind his back. An infuriatingly casual stance. One that showed he wasn’t threatened by her declaration.

_Because he isn’t real._

And yet her pride smarted all the same.

“And I would not expect you to,” he said. “We are similar in that, it would seem.”

“We are _not_ similar, Nilfgaardian,” Cassandra nearly snarled. “Not even in the least.”

He shrugged, a small, knowing smile working its way onto his lips. “We both have blood on our hands, Siren.” She flinched again, and, this time, she would swear there was the slightest hint of satisfaction in his eyes. “All in the name of the princess of Cintra. To say we are different is nothing short of delusional.”

“Shut up,” she spat, the worn, black leather wrapped around her sword hilt’s grip creaking as she tightened her hold upon it.

That knowing smile morphed into a smirk, and he took a step toward her, putting little more than a single stride between them. “You think because a soldier’s blood stains your blade that you are somehow absolved of the sins you have committed. A life is a life, whether it was adorned in finely crafted armor or rough-spun cloth.”

“I said _shut up_.” Cassandra didn’t care to argue anymore. This nightmare had to end. She had to wake up. “I will not debate morality with a man who has participated in the slaughter of entire kingdoms. I will not listen as you attempt to justify the lives you have willfully cut short, as you attempt to equate protecting a _child_ from heartless murderers with the atrocities committed by the kingdom you serve.”

“As I see it,” Cahir said evenly, coolly, “I am not the one attempting to justify anything. I serve a higher purpose, a higher calling. No guilt burdens my soul.” That pitying, patronizing expression returned. “Can you say the same?”

Something inside her snapped. Whatever bit of self control she had carried with her into this hellish nightmare evaporated as white hot rage burned through her veins.

This dream wraith would not condescend to her, make her feel ashamed of what she had done to protect Ciri—no matter the Nilfgaardian blood she had spilled.

They had spilled enough to fill oceans. They had inflicted unspeakable horrors and suffering upon thousands without regret.

 _He_ had no remorse for his deeds. Why should she?

And so she didn't stop to think as she wrapped both hands around her blade's grip and swung blindly, hatred and fury encasing her heart, a yell of desperate frustration that came from the very depths of her abdomen piercing the suffocating silence.

But even in her rage fueled haze, in that split second before her blade cut through the stagnant, mist filled air, she noticed something peculiar. A brief flicker of fear sparking to life in those bright blue eyes. As if he realized that he was too close, that he was in danger.

As if he realized that he could die.

But then the momentum behind her blade was brought to a sudden and very jarring halt, the joints in her wrists and shoulders aching with the force of it. Cassandra blinked once, twice, before she realized what she was seeing. What she was feeling.

Cahir held the freshly sharpened steel between his hands, having just barely caught it before it reached the exposed flesh of his face. A face that was now near bone white and contorted in pain.

Blood welled where his hands clutched at the metal before it started its slow descent down the length of the blade. She watched the trail it left, transfixed. Dark red and thick. The color of fine wine. Just the same as it was in the waking world.

The blood pooled at the base before dripping to the gray, featureless ground, but the smallest rivulet managed to spill over the guard and onto her fingers.

It felt wet. Warm.

It felt _real_.

A sharp, almost painful gasp erupted from her lips before she could even attempt to reign it in, dropping the sword as if burned. Cahir winced softly as the blade slipped from his grip and fell to the ground, the pristine metal now smeared with his blood. The familiar, coppery scent that accompanied such wounds filled the air, and Cassandra felt her vision begin to swim.

It couldn’t be.

 _He_ couldn’t be.

She forced herself to meet his gaze. Expecting—hoping—to see that snide smirk in place, the apparition chuckling darkly as it proclaimed its victory. As it declared her the heartless monster it claimed her to be.

But all she saw was a pair of blue eyes clouded over with an acute pain. 

Pain, and the slightest hint of panic.

Cassandra shook her head, fighting to keep down the bile that now burned at her throat as she took a stumbling step back. Pure, unadulterated terror clutched at her chest, and she fought to take in air—but all she tasted was the metallic tang of his blood upon her tongue.

“Huntress,” Cahir tried, his voice strained. Was that from the pain? Or was it something else? Cassandra couldn’t tell. She could barely breathe. She couldn’t think. She had to breathe.

She continued to back away. She could feel her mouth moving, attempting to form words, to demand answers, but no sound came.

And then darkness crept in, enveloping her, that gray, fog filled world falling away.

But not before she heard him call out her name, its desperation echoing out into that black abyss.

* * *

Cassandra came to with a startled jolt and a choking gasp, the air like sandpaper against her too dry throat. The world felt as if it had tilted on its axis, her equilibrium struggling to adjust to the sudden change in perspective. It was then that she realized she was no longer on her feet, but laying on her side upon the hard, unforgiving ground.

She pushed herself up onto her forearms, a violent coughing fit wracking her body as she tried to acclimate herself to her surroundings, her tear filled eyes rapidly scanning the area.

Grass beneath her. Trees above. Clear, moist air. Bright, golden sunlight. Birds. Insects. 

_Life._

She was in the forest. She was awake.

She was alone.

A great sigh left her as the coughing subsided, relief washing over her like the waves along the southern shore. A dream. No, an awful night terror. A symptom of exhaustion and paranoia.

Were it not for the frantic beat of her heart and her labored breath, she might have laughed at the utter ridiculousness of it all. If Jaskier had been around, he would have done it for her, cackling loudly at her distress.

“ _The Siren of the Continent_ ,” he would say, “ _the fearsome wraith that leaves Nilfgaardians wetting their beds, finally cowed in the face of a dreadfully vicious bad dream._ ”

Cassandra shook her head, suppressing a smile. That thought alone brought her some sense of solace and calmed her pulse, the newly acquired ache beneath her skull subsiding.

A soft, forlorn yowl caught her attention, nearly causing her to jump out of her skin. She looked over her shoulder to see her faithful hunting cat crouching at her side, ears flat against his head and his tail swishing back and forth in the grass like a scythe.

A breathless laugh fell from her lips. “Some help you are.”

Another yowl was the only response before the animal ambled forward to rub his head against hers, a purr like the rumble of distant thunder filling the peaceful forest clearing.

Cassandra allowed herself a small giggle. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

She reached up to scratch behind the hunting cat’s large, tufted ears, a smile making its way onto her face for the first time in what felt like days, but was surprised to find her hand felt wet. Sticky. Like she had accidentally rolled into a well of sap in her sleep

Pulling her hand away, she glanced down at her fingers, that easy smile falling away and morphing into a look of horror.

Fresh blood, bright red in the morning light, stained her flesh.

And a few feet away, her sword laid amongst the fallen leaves and broken twigs, blood smeared upon its gleaming metal surface.  
  


* * *

It was harder coming out of this one. 

He felt dizzy, nauseous, his hair soaked through with sweat, and his vision still had not cleared. He could not stand, lest his legs collapse under his weight, and he could hardly speak, his voice little more than a low rasp.

And his hands…

Blood continued to flow freely from the gashes along his palms, the flesh gaping and exposing a gruesome mess of sinew and bone. A growing puddle of red sat at his feet, the fluid leaking into the cracks in the floorboards. There wasn’t a magic concoction that would be able to get the stains out. No matter how thorough the cleaning, no matter how hard it was scrubbed, there would always be some trace of his blood ingrained in the mahogany planks, proof of his folly.

Of his shame.

“—the risks of such a thing.” A muffled, familiar voice broke through the fog encasing his mind. A fog that seemed to have followed him out of that barren wasteland.

Cahir snapped to attention, blinking his bleary eyes as he attempted to focus. He tried to clench his fists, to concentrate on the minute movements of the muscles beneath his skin, but that only caused a sharp surge of pain to shoot up his arms and down his spine. He hissed softly, his nostrils flaring as he bit back a yelp.

“Come again?” he ground out, only just barely maintaining the respectful tone required of him.

“I _said_ ,” Fringilla Vigo intoned, her shoulders back and her head high, “I warned you of the danger in this endeavor. The risks of attempting such a thing.”

He continued to stare down at the pool of dark liquid, his forearms braced upon his thighs, his palms up. The melodic _drip drip_ of his blood hitting the floor was almost soothing. Like the last drops of rain upon an open field after a raging storm. “It had to be done.”

“The huntress is not our only option.” The scorn in her voice was blatant. As if the mere mention of the mysterious shield-maiden was beneath her. Cahir felt a muscle in his jaw jump as he clamped down on the strange swell of anger that rippled through him. “She is not even our best option.”

“She is the key to the princess,” he said, his voice even and sure despite the pain. Despite the image of her face blanching in horror as she backed away from him, her bright green eyes wide and glossy with panic. “I’ve felt it.”

“Our men scour the continent following every lead, pulling at every thread. To rely on the huntress is a fool’s errand.”

The black knight took a deep, steadying breath, his vision finally beginning to clear. “The huntress travels with the witcher.”

Fringilla stilled. “Certainly not—”

“Yes.” The word left him on a sigh, as if the admission pained him. How strange that such a small word could hurt worse than that of mangled flesh. “Geralt of Rivia. The princess’ guardian and protector.”

The sorceress was quiet again, though her back remained ramrod straight. The sounds of laughter and jubilant conversation seeped in from the makeshift Nilfgaardian camp just outside the door. The rank and file did not get the privilege of taking up residence in commandeered homes—that privilege was reserved for the emperor’s mage and advisor.

A sharp exhale escaped Fringilla before she spoke again. “She knows now, Cahir. She forced me out. She severed the bond.”

_I am no slave to destiny._

Cahir clenched his fists, welcoming the searing agony that came with it. “I know.”

“It will be harder going forward. To fabricate a bond like this is difficult even when both parties are willing. An unwilling—”

_Nor am I bound to you and your ilk._

“I _know_!” His voice seemed to echo in that little cottage, the edge of desperation to his tone unmistakable. He could feel the sorceress’ gaze upon him like a freshly heated brand, like the tightening of a noose. Clearing his throat, he composed himself, breathing deeply once again. His hands trembled where they still sat upon his thighs, the blood dripping at a steadier pace, the puddle at his feet continuing to spread.

After a moment, he finally lifted his head, meeting the dark eyed gaze of the magic wielder before him. “The princess must be found. The White Flame demands it.”

A pause. Fringilla watched him, scrutinized him, as if searching for some crack in his armor. A breach in his resolve. For a moment, he thought she just might find it.

But she merely nodded, an empty, placating smile pulling at her lips. “Your loyalty will be rewarded, Cahir. It is nearly assured.”

Cahir felt his shoulders sag as she turned to leave, her pale blue robes billowing out behind her. “I will send one of my acolytes in to treat your wounds,” she called over her shoulder, reaching for the door’s handle—but stopped and turned back to face him as she pulled something from a hidden pocket. “And you will need something better than this.”

Fringilla tossed a hunk of hardened leather to the floor, the piece of midnight blue armor landing in the puddle of blood at his feet.

The black knight nodded stiffly, swallowing back a wave of nausea that nearly overcame him.

“The spell will need something more than a piece of her leathers to take hold next time." And with that, she opened the door and strode out into the dim morning light, leaving Cahir to stare down at the discarded piece of blood soaked armor.


End file.
